Promise of the Rose (38 page)

   At dinner Mary learned the details of what had transpired at Carlisle. The countess wanted to be apprised of it all, and her questions were sharp, pointed, and endless. The earl had remained in the North, restoring order, Geoffrey had returned to Canterbury, but Brand, on his way back to London with his men, had stopped at Alnwick for the night. However, it was Stephen who answered his mother’s questions, his tone level and dispassionate. How easily he spoke of his triumph over her land and her people.

Mary listened and said nothing. After the disastrous encounter with her husband earlier, she was in a sore and wary mood, and to hear of how quickly Carlisle had fallen did nothing to improve it.

Too, it was the first time that Mary had seen anyone other than Stephen since being punished for spying. She was guilty of eavesdropping but innocent of treachery, yet she was afraid to look the countess in the eye. She knew how intelligent that woman was, how much she loved her husband and Alnwick, which had once been a Saxon fief belonging to her father. Mary imagined that Lady Ceidre was furious with her—as well as terribly disappointed.

So Mary was startled when the countess addressed her, her tone kind. “I am sure this must be difficult for you, Mary.”

Mary looked up, startled, finally meeting the countess’s gaze. “Your pardon, madam?”

“How difficult this must be for you, to be married to my son, a Norman, who wars upon your country—and your family.”

Mary was pale. She felt every eye at the long table below upon her, as well as her husband’s, who sat beside her on the dais. Yet the countess was genuinely sympathetic, Mary was sure. But how could that be? “Yes,” she finally croaked. “It is very difficult, very upsetting.” To her horror, a tear slipped from her eyes.

The countess sat on Stephen’s other side, but she leaned across her son to pat Mary’s hand. “Stephen probably has not told you, but he told me that all of your family is well, Mary.”

Mary drew in a breath. She had worried, too, about one of her brothers or her father being hurt or killed. It seemed that, even though she had learned just how ruthless Malcolm could be, she could not be oblivious to him—he would always be her father. Unable to keep the eagerness from her voice, she faced her husband for the first time since she had come downstairs. “You are certain?”

He stared at her. “As certain as can be. I believe that Edgar was wounded, but I saw him fighting until the end, so it could not have been too grave.”

“Edgar!” Mary’s heart twisted. “You are sure he is well enough?”

Stephen nodded, still watching her.

Mary sighed with relief, trembling. It struck her that her current predicament could be so much worse. She and Stephen could be at this impasse, yet it could be complicated by the death of someone she loved. Mary prayed that would never be. But if Northumberland’s forces kept clashing with Malcolm’s, was it not inevitable? She shivered, struck with horrible premonition.

“It was not easy for me either, once upon a time,” the countess was saying.

When Mary looked at the countess again, she could not help peeking at Stephen, who now regarded his glass of wine, grimly. Had she somehow displeased him again?

Mary turned to his mother, her curiosity genuine. “Because you were Saxon?”

“I was not just Saxon, but my father’s by-blow,” Lady Ceidre admitted candidly. “And Rolfe, as you must have heard, was one of the Conqueror’s most trusted men. The
gulf between us could not have been wider, especially as he personally was given the responsibility for bringing the North to its knees. Although William determined the policy, it was brutal and cruel. When I first met my husband, he was ordering a small village burned to the ground for harboring Saxon archers, archers who had ambushed his men. He ordered it burned, every square inch of it, even the com, which meant that one and all would not just freeze that winter, but starve as well. I begged him for mercy, but he refused. How I hated him.”

Mary stared, stunned. “But—if you hated him so, how could you have come to love him as you do?” As Mary waited for the countess to reply, she was even more aware of Stephen sitting beside her. Only an inch or two separated their bodies, so it had been impossible not to be aware of him and become somewhat distressed by his proximity the longer they sat together, but now he did not move and did not breathe, as keenly interested in the conversation between her and his mother as she was, or so it seemed.

“Well—” Lady Ceidre smiled slightly “—he is one of the handsomest men you have ever seen, is he not? I could not help noticing. And, as you know, my husband is a good man—he was obeying his King, nothing more, as we all must do. Although I secretly supported my rebel brothers, I fell in love with him. To make matters worse, he was soon married to my sister, Alice, my father’s legitimate daughter. We were enemies from the start, but we fell in love.” For a moment she was obviously lost in the past, her face suddenly young, a trick of the rosy light, her eyes shining, which was no trick at all. She sighed. “It was not easy. I betrayed him again and again, believing it to be my duty. He was so furious. But… time heals all wounds, Mary. Time healed ours. And when the wounds were less painful, the love was still there, stronger than before.”

Mary wondered what had happened to Alice, the earl’s first wife. Obviously she had died in a timely manner, allowing the earl to marry his lady love. “ ’Tis somehow a sad story,” Mary said, aware of Stephen listening to her intently, “but beautiful, so beautiful.”

“I am a very lucky woman,” Ceidre said. She smiled gently. “And so are you, my dear, even if you do not yet know it. Sometimes the path to happiness is long and difficult, but the trial in getting there makes the final reward so much sweeter.”

Mary looked down at the trencher she shared with her husband. Although they shared it, although he chose her portions for her as he should, there had been no warmth, no love, in his actions. They had been politeness and duty and nothing more. Mary was assaulted by the foolish romanticism she sought to avoid. How she found herself wishing for the kind of love that the countess had found with the earl, a love strong enough to endure the worst of times—a love grand enough for all time.

The hall was unusually quiet. Mary realized that the many retainers seated below them had been listening to the countess’s every word—and hers. Suddenly she looked up, well aware of what everyone was thinking, the countess included. They were all convinced of her guilt. Thinking that she, like the Lady Ceidre, had committed treachery against her husband, foolishly but deliberately. In a love story told on a full belly and in the haze brought on by good wine, it was acceptable and even romantic; in reality it was not. She met the countess’s gaze. “I did not betray my husband, madame,” she said to her alone. But her voice rang clear, and everyone heard it. “I would never break my wedding vows.”

   Stephen avoided retiring for the night. Even though he was exhausted, enough so that, as he sat in the Great Hall before the dying fire, the many retainers asleep on their pallets, his mother and sister long since gone to their beds, and his wife as well, he could feel his lids growing heavier by the moment. But still he stared into the glowing cinders and watched the occasional flame. Mary’s vehement denial of duplicity echoed in his mind.

The front door groaning open and then banging closed roused him. Brand sauntered into the hall. He saw Stephen and started, then grinned. “What? You are not yet to bed?” He came closer. There was no mistaking what had kept him out so late. He wore a heavy, sated air, and when he slid
into the seat beside his brother, Stephen remarked that his blond hair was tousled, disheveled with straw.

“If I had such a bride, I would not linger here.” Brand said, grinning.

“Perhaps that is the problem.”

Brand’s smile died. “What ails you, Stephen? Your unhappiness is evident.”

“You need to ask?” He heard how bitter he sounded, and resolved to speak with more detachment.

“I know you were not pleased to go to war against Scotland,” Brand said slowly. “But you had no choice. Surely she understands.”

“She does not understand me—nor do I understand her.” Stephen stood, placing his back to his brother. Brand did not respond, so he turned slightly. “Tell me, brother, what do you think of my wife?”

Brand grew wary. “ ’Tis quite the question.”

“Does she not appear the angel? Beauty, perfection, and innocence?”

“Yes.”

Stephen laughed, once. “There is nothing perfect or innocent about her.”

Brand stood. “Stephen, I know what happened. Geoffrey told me.”

“Then you know that she is a little liar.”

Brand hesitated. “ ’Tis a good thing that you have found out her true inclinations. Now forget it. Go and get an heir upon her, and then, if she dares to repeat her behavior, banish her as you must do.”

“How simple you make it sound.” Stephen faced Brand, his smile mocking. “I fear I will be reluctant to send her into exile if the time should come that I must.”

Brand stared. “You would have to, Stephen. This time her spying came to naught, but what if she had succeeded in warning Malcolm? Many Normans would be dead this day—perhaps even you or I.”

His jaw was tight. “You think I do not know this? I know it too well!”

“Then just make sure you do not forget it,” Brand said very seriously. Then he smiled and gripped his brother’s
shoulder. “It is late. I know the cure for what ails you. Go to your beautiful bride and beget that heir. I guarantee it will ease your mind.” Brand grinned.

Stephen watched him walk across the hall to the pallet he had made. He could not reveal to his brother that he lingered in the hall because he was afraid. Celibacy, even if only in regard to his wife, was out of the question—at least until she had conceived or given him an heir. Thus he had every intention of taking Mary as he willed, as he must in order to beget an heir, but how could he control himself? For he was afraid he might still be overwhelmed by uncontrollable passion, in spite of her treachery. If that was the case, Mary would recognize it immediately and would gain the upper hand.

Every instinct he had was raised in warning in a manner similar to that when he entered the lists or a great war. Undoubtedly he would be entering dangerous territory when he entered her bed. He would be giving her immense power over him, power he dared not trust her with.

And if his threats to exile her were only idle threats, she would soon comprehend that, too. Mary was too clever by far. His threats must not be idle. If given cause, he must do what he must, he must send her away, no matter how distasteful.

If not, Mary could become the agent of his destruction.

Stephen quickly turned. He was no coward. To be afraid of his wife was the height of cowardice. He had always done what he must do. If she gave him cause, he would exile her immediately. And he would control himself in bed, so she would not guess how obsessed with her he had become. Hadn’t he learned, a long time ago, when a small boy held hostage at Court, how to chase his feelings into oblivion? Then it had been a matter of survival. Now it might be a matter of survival, too.

   Mary did not pretend to sleep. As was customary, she lay naked beneath the blankets and furs of her bed, her hair unbound, uncovered, and brushed out. It shone in the flickering firelight. As Stephen had suggested, she had bathed before dinner, although not in his bath, which had been
filthy. She had washed her hair as well as her body, knowing very well how Stephen had once admired it.

Mary cradled a pillow, thinking of Stephen anxiously. Would he sleep with her tonight? Would he try to make love to her? She did not think he would inconvenience himself and sleep on a pallet in the hall below, no matter how he might wish to avoid her. At dinner he had acted casually towards her, which indicated to her that he would indeed share their bed tonight. But she dared not guess if he would touch her.

How glad she was that she had not told him she had conceived. Then he would have every excuse to shun her, and he would likely assuage his lust elsewhere. Just the thought of him going to another woman made Mary rigid. She thought she could tolerate almost anything, but not that. Not his infidelity.

Her thoughts wandered to Stephen’s mother. She became wistful. She easily imagined how Lady Ceidre must have felt as a young girl, her father dead, her brothers dispossessed and in hiding, planning their rebellion, while falling in love with the enemy, a man married to her sister. It was a tragic story, one seemingly impossible to resolve. Yet there had been a glorious resolution. The bastard Saxon girl had become the Countess of Northumberland, wife to her lover, the mother of three strong sons and one beautiful daughter, powerful and elegant and beloved.

Mary could not help yearning for such a future, too. But she must be mad. It would be enough, she thought, to be in Stephen’s good graces. She would never receive that kind of love from him. But—her heart turned over—there would be children. Or at least a child. Perhaps their mutual love for that child would bring them closer together, perhaps one day he would become genuinely fond of her. Yet could that ever be enough?

Mary stiffened, hearing Stephen’s footsteps. All hopes, all deliberations upon what might be their future, fled in that instant. She was frozen, unmoving, not daring to breathe. The door groaned softly as he opened and closed it. Her shoulders were so stiff, they hurt. She listened to him disrobing. First his sword belt, which grated loudly as he laid it down. Other
belts dropped to the floor without ceremony. Mary heard the soft whisper of fabric as he removed his tunics. She could visualize him standing bare-chested in his boots, braies, and hose. The boots thumped as they hit the floor. More fabric whispered teasingly.

What kind of woman am I? Mary wondered as he slid into the bed with her. His body did not touch hers, but she could not relax. Her own body was pulsing in acute awareness of him. How could he have such an effect upon her? Her life was a shambles, desperately in need of salvaging, yet she barely cared. Instead, she lay rigid, hoping he would touch her. Knowing he would not.